Laugh Lines
by TheOddOne
Summary: After Gaav's death at the hands of Phibrizzo, he reflects on his human life. Chapter seven up! I just don't quit!
1. Laugh Lines

Hi there! This fanfic will be a series of short stories from Gaav's human lives. Some of them assume he was born in different dimensions at times ^^;;; They will progress into him remembering his mazoku side, and the two sides fusing, and it goes from there. Basically a reflection of Gaav's human life. Please tell me what you think. Flames welcome! . . . . . needed . . . . .  
  
  
  
  
  
I have always admired the fight for life. The overwhelming human will to live, and live fully. I have tried so to live each day of my life like . . . . . . . it's a day of my life. No regrets. However, now.my fight for life is over. Around me, there is water. It reflects gold from some unknown light source, as far as the eye can see. All else is white. As I look around, my eyes are drawn to the striking contrast of my reflection in the water against all white. I can see the cascade of blood red hair, the weary blue eyes. The lines in my face . . . . . see these lines here? Laugh lines. Physical evidence of the weariness the world brings upon us. Am I so tired? I . . . . . .don't think so. The struggle for my life has never ceased, up to the very end. But then . . . . sometimes I feel it, when I am left alone with nothing but my thoughts. Like now.  
  
I sit down in the water that will never again make me wet, look up at the sky filled with nothing. These are my laugh lines, my life I fought so for, my memories.  
  
  
  
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Among wreakage and debree, one person stands. At his feet, the great form of Ragradia lays dead. His distraught blue eyes are cast up to the sky, and blood runs down his face, crimson as the flowing hair that falls to his feet. He looks and bloodied hands, and touches his face. His mouth suddenly emits a scream, racking his now small form. One of betrayal, of pain. He falls, and blood of the not so good runs together with the blood of not so evil. Their blood, together, runs cold. 


	2. Story 1: The Price Of Death

"Your regrets will be you death! Do not regret what you have done."  
  
Those words echo in one young man's head as he walks down a darkening, dismal street. You will kill. Have no regrets. He heard those words so long ago-and still, they came back to his head every time he had a mission. It wasn't like it really mattered, anyway. He had done this sort of thing a thousand times by now. Only the first time ever really did matter.  
  
/ This is not a world worth saving.. that night where the streets ran red and my hands were covered in blood... I can still see that blood. That stain of life's blood never washes away. But I have no regrets../  
  
All other memories and thoughts life from his consciousness as his eyes recognize his target. He is crouched, silent, waiting. Every move the target makes is watched by a keen eye that waits for him to come closer . . . . . closer . . . . . . /now./ Like a machine, he registers the marked man in range, and immediately leaps into action, descending to the target's path like a falcon diving to it's prey. He lands, gun in hand, aimed at the other man's head. The man stutters, backs away hastily. He begins to make promises, and begs for his life. A smile plays on the assassin's face. "Too late."  
  
A gunshot pierces the silence of the night, and the man falls, dead.  
  
The killer puts the gun away quickly, and turns to escape the scene. He finds himself instead faced with cold, narrow eyes and a katana pointed at his throat. The sudden attacker thrusts her weapon foreword, and he dances back, barely out of her range. She growls, and lunges at him again. "You don't deserve to live," She hisses, while her katana makes an incision in his arm. In return, his fist jabs into her side, and she stumbles. Looking at him evenly, she continues; "Killing on a whim. People are dead because of your disregard." He rolls his eyes. So, a self- righteous killer. How pathetic.  
  
"And what do you think you are?" he taunts, and punches her hard enough to knock her to the ground. He looms over her with a sadistic smirk. "Look at you, all set to kill me, and yet you think you're justified in deciding I should die. Do you honestly think you're any better then me? A murderer is a murderer. Nothing more."  
  
A smile. /What?/ "And that," she says, getting up, "is the difference between you and me. I /know/ that. You don't know the price of death."  
  
With one thrust, her katana pierces him through.  
  
She is gone in the darkness. He falls over, blood spilling onto the trampled grass. His eyes blur. Suddenly, he is once more on that condemned street, and tears are running freely from his eyes. The pavement and cobblestone run red. The air is thick with blood's coppery smell-his hands are covered in it, his feet walk over it. Blood of everyone he ever knew, and never would know. The price of death . . . . . . /that/ is the price of death.  
  
For the first time in a cold-blooded killer's life, he regrets. 


	3. Story 2: Delusion

Mehehe.I'm having fun with my short stories. ^^ Don't worry- Gaav will come. Right now I'm just worrying about somebody ousting this fic for not fitting in the Slayers category . . . . ^^;;; Maybe I can stun them all with my mad skillz! Um. Anywho. This one's a bit confusing, so if you have any questions, go ahead and email me about them. Enjoy!  
  
  
  
Fiery red hair flaps violently in the wind, as it's adolescent owner stands over a dying friend. He looks up in fury and bewilderment at the offender. His stomach churns-this doesn't make /sense/. "What's going on?!" His inquisition is met with silence. "Tell me!" Still, his opponent does not respond, head down. His temper flares up in irritation. Under his breath he starts to mutters a chant, and a radiant light appears in his hand. "If you won't tell me . . . . . " He threatens boldly, and points the spell in her direction. She looks up suddenly, tears in her large black eyes on a face that was painfully grievous. "Crimen, why won't you wake up?!"  
  
  
  
"What-" Everything faded to black.  
  
  
  
Mere hours before, Crimen had been running out the door to pick up his partner and best friend, Vogel, in time for the mission. Both of them had recently joined a private organization, and they were getting their first tiresome, absolutely purposeless assignments. The organization did major things like stop wars, but the missions /they/ got were more like listening in on people who may or may not have something to do with someone who knows the person who's the real problem's sister. It was like a . . . . a gossip chain. It was stifling -but as Vogel always pointed out, this organization's so immense and important, they probably /have/ to test the newbies with stupid things.  
  
Vogel laughed to see his comrade rushing over to him in a sort of frenzied panic. "Calm! The world won't end if we're a little bit late." Crimen shot Vogel a dirty look.  
  
"I'd think you'd be even more excited then me," he retorted. "I know how much you love to be bored . . ."  
  
"Enthralled." Vogel chuckled. "Now let's move it-can't miss an exciting day of irrelevant eavesdropping!"  
  
Their mission had been simply to pick up a package and take it back to headquarters. That's all. Vogel had jokingly said how you KNEW a mission was sad when it was pick up the Vice President's imported authentic tea. They laughed, and the assignment went over smoothly, as always.  
  
On the way back there was a sudden and drastic change in the normality- a young women standing out in the road, right in their path. Dark, straight hair fell into her face, and her head was bowed, as though in mourning. Upon seeing her, Vogel's eyes suddenly seemed to cloud. He stopped driving, and turned to Crimen with a anguished expression. There was grave, worn sadness in his eyes. "Why won't you wake up?"  
  
"Vogel!" Crimen panicked. "Vogel, what the hell are you talking about? Steer, dammit!" Crimen grabbed the steering wheel and swerved the car sharply, to avoid hitting the girl. She remained unmoving. The car spun wildly, and crashed into a brick building. Crimen remembered hitting the brick wall dizzily-it was the worst part. More the sound then how it felt. He remembered climbing out the car, and standing, bewildered,. over his bleeding companion. He looked up at the girl to yell at her, and noticed a badge on her shirt. A badge of the agency. In large writing, the badge read : "President."  
  
  
  
As Crimen hits the ground, a familiar voice enters his head . . . . . "Don't you hear me, Crimen?"  
  
"Miss Muehe." A young nurse with a sad face came into the small meeting room of a tidy and calm hospital. "I'm afraid it's time to go."  
  
The woman in the room slowly stood up. She looked down sadly at the long, crimson hair that framed an expressionless face. Still she could not seem to bring him back to reality.  
  
He looked up at her, blue eyes blinking back at hers in confusion. "Why aren't you back at the agency?" Tears threatened her eyes, and she turned quickly. The nurse gave her a small hug, to try and comfort her.  
  
"Do you . . . . . suppose he'll ever come back to reality?" She asked tearfully, looking back at the red-haired man.  
  
"I don't know, miss Muehe." They left the room. Crimen was alone. 


	4. Story 3: The Lessons Learned

No one's reviewed still. o.o Maybe if I put in the summary "mad hot kinky lovin'!" I'd get more. Hmmm . . . In any case, here is the next chapter. It draws closer to the Slayers world. This character is /very/ different from Gaav, however.  
  
  
  
"In the year to come, I will see birds flying in the sky"  
  
Crouched in a worn down basement, a small, thin man with striking orange-red hair covers his ears and closes his eyes tightly. /Please, please, please, let me survive this./ He begs silently. The deafening explosions outside don't subside for hours, and even when they do, no one dares surface for another few. Houses around them are obliterated. He is careful to come up, but then joins the effort of searching through the rubble for survivors, and treating the wounded.  
  
"I will sit on my porch and watch the children play in the yards between houses."  
  
He is one of the few in the town who still remember what life was like before the war. He sometimes longed to see the birds that had once flown overhead, that dared to no more. Once the dragons had started fighting beside them, most people moved-but himself, blind in one eye and half deaf in one ear, had refused to leave the small town where he and his brothers had grown up. The dragons and this town had always lived side by side in peace, but in the past years the dragons had suddenly started battling an outside force-and this town was caught up in it, receiving explosions meant for the dragons or the stray blasts of a fight. . In but an hour people returned to their shelters, fearing another assult.  
  
He stands on the side of his old porch, the side that had not been destroyed by flying rubble. He could almost remember hearing the laughter of children, running around the yard playing with his two older brothers while his father watched. It had been eight years since any children had played outside. Now, he could see neglected streets full of holes, and houses that had reduced partially or entirely reduced to rubble. There were many children who had never seen the outside, or were too young to remember, for their parents had never let them out. A few dead plants, a few lingering people who watched each other with fear and suspicion in their eyes.  
  
However, there was a small sprout of green that drew his eye from the striking contrast against the dismal grays and browns of everything else. He walked over to it. Grass. Miraculously, one small patch of grass still remained.  
  
"You will see, you will see how good it will be"  
  
He touched the blades gently. "Maybe . . ." he thought, "maybe next year, there will be children playing outside again. There will be birds, and grass /everywhere../ He stood up, and smiled. Next year, he'd be sitting on his porch without fear, watching the children play and laughing. His brothers . . . . .and his father would be happy to have it that way. They hadn't lived through the explosion that had blinded his eye, but he swore to live long enough to see it through.  
  
"In the year to come."  
  
Yes.maybe next year. This peaceful town would no longer be nothing but vast and desolate rubble, and this war would never again be fought. The man returns to his house, and descends to his confining shelter. Maybe he'd even miss the war, someday. In the year to come.  
  
"There has been joy. There will be joy again." ~Alfred Bester 


	5. Story 4: Lovely Things

Aha! Chapter five. This is officially the longest story I have ever written. Well, I /am/ new at this. This story is not just to show off what I call my poetry skills, I swear-it's all tied in. Sorry that it's not much story, but hey, poems are good, too. And the beginning quote? I have /no/ idea who said it.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Many ingenious lovely things are gone  
  
That seemed sheer miracle to the multitude."  
  
  
  
A pen and paper. All he needed was a pen and paper, dammit! Or.something!  
  
An odd sort of inspiration had come to that day. He had never been much of a poet. Oh, he dabbled, and he read quite a bit of it, but never had sheer inspiration hit him so much he just /needed/ to /write!/ He searched frantically through piles of clutter and resolved for the millionth time he would organize his desk. But finally he was able to scrounge up some ink and a few sheets of paper. Immediately he scribbled down a few words.  
  
I have left something behind.  
  
It may not be material.  
  
It may not be conceivable  
  
It may not be retrievable  
  
I don't know.  
  
Now..where did that come from? Oh well. Sometimes he never really thought about what he wrote, and when he tried, there was a struggle between sheer inspiration and logic.  
  
He finished his scrawling and sat back to read it. It didn't make any sense to him. He sighed in frustration. Maybe he could find some symbolism or something to it-some other time. He sighed and stuffed it into a drawer, where he would read it years later, disturbed by it's content.  
  
"I have left something behind.  
  
It may not be material.  
  
It may not be conceivable  
  
It may not be retrievable  
  
I don't know.  
  
It's the feeling you get  
  
To wake up with a hollow heart  
  
And a tired soul  
  
I have left something behind  
  
Maybe a lifetime  
  
Maybe these lives I have lived  
  
Lived so long that I grow tired  
  
Feeling hollow in the morning  
  
So weary of another soul  
  
Infested in my heart  
  
I live these lives  
  
I know no greater pain nor mirth  
  
Then with these souls I play  
  
Masquerade for moments at a time  
  
They become more real then I  
  
I, their channel  
  
I, their voices  
  
They, my escape  
  
They, my downfall  
  
They are me." 


	6. Story 5: Black Felt

Whew! That took long enough. I've been busy with.things. You know, sleeping, eating, watching T.V..sitting around and doing nothing.. In any case, a painfully short chapter six has arrived! This, I believe, is the best chapter yet. Even though it hints at my current FF9 obsession ;  
  
The night was thick with darkness. Not that it's possible. None the less, it seemed, Dagger mused, that one could reach out and touch it, that it was like-oh, what's the word-felt. That's it. The darkness seemed like black felt. He sighed, shortly, realizing that philosophizing about the night in bad clichés meant that he had reached a new height of boredom. It was bad enough to have a slow guard job, but now he had nothing to look at but black felt all night.  
  
/Snap/. Dagger tensed at the sudden noise, then calmed. /Probably just a.squirrel in the woods. Or maybe a rabbit.some sort of small animal./ He looked about himself warily, which was useless considering he couldn't see a thing.  
  
Then, they came. Footsteps.  
  
Not real loud, like many people made, but solid and clear, like one person. They grew louder.Dagger had hoped that they would fade, but it grew evident they were coming his way.  
  
"Who's there?" He called out, voice wavering. No response. He grew uneasy, and called out again, "who's there? Is anybody-"  
  
A hand clasped over his mouth suddenly. "Quiet." A wispy, deep voice said with ultimate calm. Dagger dared nor to speak, until the hand removed itself from his mouth.  
  
"What do you want?" he whispered. He felt the presence of this person in front of him. The man moved his face up to Dagger's, barely keeping them from contacting. He wasn't as tall as his presence might suggest, for they met eye to eye. Dagger was frozen. The man's eyes glinted maniacally.  
  
His lips barely met Daggers, and they formed the words: "I'll settle for your life."  
  
Before Dagger could respond, he felt and burning pain sear through his stomach. He screamed, and couldn't tell when his eyes no longer held vision within this world.  
  
The man thrust his weapon brutally out of Dagger, and let him fall to the cobblestone below. He threw his head back and laughed, mane of crimson hair sliding over his shoulders and down his back. He laughed out loud until his voice rebelled in his throat and would no longer give out a sound. 


	7. Story 6: Sunrise, Sunset

This is the last life story of Gaav's human self. It's very different-very poetic. The other chapters I tried to make a little more brash, to fit his personality. This, being the end of his human lives, signifies letting something go-and being forever changed by it. Woo! That sounded good.  
  
A whisper, the touch of your hand . . . . so many things are gone that seem simple in their multitude. However. . . . there is something irreplaceable, which erases all the outside simplicity and makes it seem as though everything I ever held dear was gone.  
  
The horizon glows a dim red-the color that warns of stormy weather as stated by the sailor's rhyme. Bathed in the red and orange of the rising sun, the pale rooftops look as though they have been lit aflame. A startling sight, at first. I can't seem to recall the last time I was up on this cliff, overseeing the colors that the sunrise brought to the land. I was probably with you. You liked the sun, especially in the glory of rising or setting. I remember you'd sit still, eyes shining, urging me to watch with you-especially the rising sun. You told me that there's nothing more beautiful then the new day where everything has another chance.  
  
Now I sound near as melancholy.hm. That suited you better. Long raven hair and pale skin, almost painfully beautiful. I look at the pictures for far too long. But pictures could never contain enough. The frozen monuments of imagery that will never again be do not retain the feeling of you being here beside me.  
  
Oh, the things I could never tell you then keep building up inside me. How many regrets do we all keep in our hearts, for not seizing the moments that we should have because of the cowardice in ourselves? Life can only be understood backwards.  
  
Philosophizing will not help.  
  
I don't think I could ever bring back the sensation I so miss. The sensation that I've never lived before, like I'm seeing the world newly all over again. A new day. You were like the sunrise to me. So maybe I'm trying to find out of this sunrise today what I found in you. What did you see in these colors of light that I cannot? I tilt my head, thoughtful.  
  
Maybe today, you would have seen a new beginning. You would have seen life going forewords, instead of memories going backwards. Taking new pictures to replace the old ones, and if you regret those pictures, tomorrow is another day. I smile, a little, and close my eyes to the warmth of the fully risen sun. I may miss you forever.  
  
I stand, and walk away. There's a long day ahead. 


End file.
